


The Hit

by MrProphet



Category: James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-21
Packaged: 2018-10-22 04:41:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10689939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrProphet/pseuds/MrProphet
Summary: This was written in response to a prompt 'an attempt at humour.'





	The Hit

James Bond hated babysitting. He appreciated the chance to attend a party as much as anyone, but when his steel, hawk’s eyes were obliged to roam past the ranks of beautiful women in their finery, watching for assassins, the charm of the event palled. In this particular assignment – doubtless another one of M’s reminders that he worked for HM Government and not the other way around – was especially torturous. 

The party was a tedious diplomatic junket at the British Embassy in Ruritania, and the ‘baby’ was His Excellency Sir Hugh Moore; a dull diplomat with a dull, diplomatic wife and little consideration for his minders. The embassy ball followed three days of sightseeing tours and photo opportunities, aimed at showing Britain’s support for the beleaguered royal family of strife-ridden Ruritania, securing Britain’s supply of Ruritanian gold, and each one more hazardous than the last.

Despite these many risks, the attack finally came in the supposed safety of the embassy, as Sir Hugh and Lady Emma were descending the stairs, secretaries and PAs in tow. It was a professional, three man hit, the work of experts, not the local freedom fighters: two shooters at close range to take down the security detail and distract from the real threat; the sniper in the gallery.

Bond drew his Walther PPK at the first sign of trouble, but concealed it behind his left hand and raked his eyes across the room before acting. The Scotland Yard detectives moved directly forward and were gunned down in a drumming of machine pistol fire for their trouble. Only when he was sure of the situation did Bond move, snapping two quick shots into the chest and throat of the nearest attacker and snatching up the man’s machine pistol as he fell. He raked the gallery with bullets, dropping the shooter and slightly reducing the sum total of Ruritania’s cultural heritage in a haze of shredded tapestry threads.

Bond half-turned on the last attacker, but with the remaining detectives closing ranks in front of the Ambassador, the machine pistol was already turned on Bond. There was no way even he could react in time, but before Bond’s eventful life could start to flash before his eyes, the machine pistol – along with the arm attached to it – was forced upwards and a delicate, stiletto-shoed foot struck the attacker squarely in the face, as Sir Hugh’s private secretary, Mrs Hayste, stepped unexpectedly into the fray.

Bond moved to cover the Ambassador’s retreat and Mrs Hayste mirrored his movements. Working with the surviving detectives they manoeuvred the couple back up the stairs, while the rest of the ballroom cleared itself in short order. Only once the Sir Hugh and Lady Emma had been bundled into a fast car to the airport did Bond and Mrs Hayste return to look over the bodies. While he worked, Bond called in to report to M and ask a few pertinent questions.

“ _Scotland Yard sent their own undercover agent,_ ” M explained. “ _They have their own sources, and diplomatic protection is ultimately their responsibility._ ”

“And they decided not to tell us?”

“ _Why would they? I never told them I was sending you._ ”

“Of course not.” Bond looked over at Mrs Hayste. “Anything?”

“No ID, not tattoos.”

“You checked everywhere?”

“Everywhere,” she confirmed with a soft laugh. “Teeth filed, fingerprints burned off. Maybe our people can do something with DNA?”

“I’m sure,” he agreed. “Takes time though. Mrs Hayste…”

“Marian.”

“Is there are Mr Hayste?”

“Not for some time.”

“In that case, would you join me for a drink while the white coats do their work?”

Mrs Hayste smiled broadly. “I’d be delighted, Mr Bond. Although I’m sure we’ll regret it eventually.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in response to a prompt 'an attempt at humour.'


End file.
